


Overexposure

by vetiverbitters



Series: The Saint and the Dragon [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J.R.R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barduil - Freeform, Darkroom, I'm so sorry Mother Theresa, M/M, Model!Thranduil, NSFW, Oranges, Otp: Barrel of Laughs, Photographer!Bard, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 06:25:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3477812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverbitters/pseuds/vetiverbitters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follow-up to Exposure and Buffer Memory.</p><p>For Bard, Thranduil's brightness washes over everything, regardless of aperture or shutter speeds. His humor, his eyes, his kiss -- they all consume the pixels of Bard's mind, burning away the shadows until the light blinds. For Thranduil, he's sure of being the lion in the den, but is Bard some hapless christian praying for salvation, or a demigod tasked with slaying him? It changes from word to word from the photographer, and it's dizzying, wild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overexposure

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _Oh well, the devil makes us sin, but we like it when we're spinning in his grip..._  
>   
>  -Massive Attack, Paradise Circus
> 
> . 

Though photography provides evidence and captures bits of reality, it is still at the mercy to the photographer's taste and ideas of the subject matter, and it thus skews the truth the photograph means to show. Bard had found that particular observation of Sontag's powerful and unnervingly mind-blowing, as per his message on late Thursday evening. Not long before that, Thranduil had received a picture message titled "don't burn yourself," featuring Bard's unruly black-brown curls splayed across a white pillow and a sleepy smile the blond had wanted to pluck from those lips and swallow like a mouthful of dark syrup. Not only had Bard made it home safely, but he looked so delicious when he was tired. 

The brunet had an older brother named Matt (short for Matthew, but no, parents were not named Mary and Joseph, much to Thranduil's amused disappointment), no pets (though he'd grown up with a lazy old dog named Alfrid), disliked his Welsh accent (what a tragedy), his favorite foods were pasta and green Thai curry (could be made vegan), and he loved Bond movies. The model had yet to ask if Bard had a favorite Bond, but he could live to ask another day.

The model's choices of in-flight movies had included Goldeneye, accompanied by Martinis and a meal box of fruit and crackers. Haldir had mercifully plucked out the wedge of cheese as soon as the food had arrived. The remainder of the flight was filled with dozing and treacherous imaginings of Bard's lips at his throat and those hands sliding over his back. Flight times should never crawl by that slowly.

At landing, the flurry of notifications flooding Thranduil's phone had sent his heart plummeting to somewhere below his stomach, then up to his throat despite his efforts to curb his eagerness. Awaiting view were seven pictures and texts from Legolas and Tauriel, thirty-three uninteresting emails, a voice message from his mother, and two texts from Bard. The first had contained a picture of tickets to a play, held in Bard's hand. The second message had drawn a rather loud purr from the smirking blond, despite the shuffling passengers around him.

**[from St. Bard; 18:21] meet me at the dials by 5:30 instead of showtime. we'll grab a bite before, found a vegan rest. near the theatre :)**

His agent had merely shaken his head and pursed his lips to save his teasing for a later time, most likely. A preening sort of warmth nestled itself between Thranduil's ribs, thrumming steadily as his eyes continued to read the message again and again.

**[to St. Bard; 18:24] Point to you for that consideration, Sun Tzu.**

**[from St. Bard; 18:29] i told i wanted to learn you, macchiavelli.**

"Praying mantises really do have the right idea, Hal. I keep telling you..."

"Right, and do you know who else has the right idea?" Haldir snatched the model's phone off his hands and stuffed it into his own pocket, nudging Thranduil with a bump of his hip and pointing at the nearly empty aisle. "Everyone who already got off the aeroplane."

* * *

Between meeting with Percy, booking an upcoming lingerie campaign, purchasing play tickets, and developing a number of prints at home between cups of coffee, Friday had slowly merged with Saturday afternoon, peppered with bursts of quick taps on Bard's lit mobile screen and secret smiles tucked into the inside of his mouth. 

At fifteen, Thranduil had eaten nothing but water and chewable vitamins for an entire week after reading an article about animal products secretly lurking in everyday food, until his mother had bought a half dozen vegetarian cookbooks in hopes of getting him and his brother Legolas to eat. Thranduil had also grown up in Belgravia (posh from the start), been home-schooled since he'd refused to cut his hair to comply with school standards (unyielding and rebellious from the start as well), and spent most of his free time playing outdoors and climbing trees (just as Bard had done in his childhood). He also liked running and yoga (if the lean, mouthwatering muscle tone was anything to go by), had two cats (talk about spirit animals), and hated central London traffic (he wasn't alone in that). In limited characters, Thranduil the person continued to take shape, brilliant and willful, a whirlpool under a calm facade of sea. More than a face on a photograph, the blond took on new solidity -- not just in the recalling of mouths and skin, but in the remarkable sharpness of his mind, and the tender snippets of kindness lurking underneath. 

By three forty, the refrigerator already held groceries, last night's dishes were put away, and all his trays and developing tank were washed and drying in the darkroom. Brimming with the giddy restlessness of anticipation, the brunet finished putting away the now clean laundry from his trip, then tossed a pair of jeans and a black tee onto the unmade bed before heading for the shower, humming to the faint sounds of Miles Davis filling his flat with a cozy, seductive darkness that pulsed through his blood and the open spaces of the flat.

* * *

 Hours later, already on his way out toward Central London, Thranduil still wished to push Haldir into oncoming traffic.

Yaya's poorly stifled giggle when Celeborn had asked him why his hips were wound so tightly during their transition from child's pose to full frog that morning could only mean his bastard agent had told her about Bard. Either their yoga instructor had chosen to ignore the little outburst and Thranduil's subsequent glare in her direction, or he really hadn't noticed it at all as he took hold of the model's hips and gently lifted them to to help alleviate the tension. More difficult than holding some of the positions he was used to, was to keep his breathing steady and cleansing, to force himself to push Wednesday night out of his mind and loosen his fists and the trembling muscles of inner and outer thighs. Out of spite, the blond had put his post-workout cup of yerba maté and his slice of Galadriel's banana bread on Yaya's tab, leaving her to pout by the register, but not without first pressing an affectionate kiss to her temple and whispering, "tell your husband to stop running his mouth, yes? I embarrass myself just fine without his help or yours, darling."

Absently, Thranduil ran his thumb over the screen of his phone as he watched the streets of Primrose and Camden turn into Fitzrovia, then Soho. The soft hum of the cab's engine lulled Thranduil's mind into a delicate calm as it navigated the ancient and seemingly endless streets toward Covent Garden. It was then in the silence of the ride that Thranduil found himself ruminating about the things he'd told Bard about himself so far, some insignificant as they were, but intimate all the same. Why play twenty questions? Did Bard really care about his favorite record, his favorite tv show, the food he ate, or why he only ever spoke Swedish with Legolas, or why he didn't like watching football? Was the man truly that interested, that thoughtful? Why  _was_  Bard single, then? Why not take what Thranduil had offered that night and let the matter lie? Where was the jarring sense of nakedness that kept his secrets safe? This eagerness to share felt so foreign, but it wasn't deterrent enough to stop his fingers from divulging what his tongue knew better not to utter aloud. Why did it feel like confession?

Was he smitten with Bard, or just the idea of pushing against the man's sensibilities until they gave, just because he could? And how would Bard react to being followed around if they were spotted together by some rumor-hungry tabloid reporter? To have his life scrutinized more than he was used to gave the model an uneasy pause, but the picture message he received roughly ten minutes before arriving to his destination defenestrated the stupid notion he should turn the cab around and go home. No way he was turning around now that Bard was waiting at their rendezvous point, looking so cheery despite the dark aviators obscuring his honest gaze, with the weathered stone of the sundial behind him. He was also wearing another knit cap -- a dark slate one, this time. God, the man was simply hateful with his stubble, and his primitive happy face emoji (there was _an entire keyboard setting_ for those and he still used colons and parentheses), and that unassuming smile.

No bloody way he was backing out of _this_ now, whatever _this_ was.

"Goddamnit, Bard, fuck," the blond hissed to himself, drawing his lower between his teeth to keep any and all sounds at bay. His hips shifted on the bench seat, widening their stance in response to the crackling of electricity low in his spine, uncoiling and stretching and _pressing outward_ against his middle. His free hand drifted over his stomach slowly and pressed back against the sensation, of being full of emptiness at the core of him. "What are you doing to me?"

The cab halted abruptly and the driver cursed the tourists that ran out in front of the vehicle. Thranduil's eyes were no longer on the picture, but a ghost of the pressure remained. Rather than wait out the bottleneck up ahead, the blond called the attention of the driver, then swiped his credit card to settle the fare and disembarked two blocks away from the piazza where Bard awaited. Nowhere near the arctic blast from days before, the more temperate London air still nipped at his skin and crawled under his jacket until all of him shuddered, but its briskness was familiar, bearable. Hands tucked into the pockets of his navy trench coat, Thranduil kept his head down as he moved through the crowds, hastening his steps just enough to move quickly without drawing too much attention. His height was always going to draw attention, but having hidden his tell-tale hair inside Bard's cap and turned up his collar, chances were good he may yet make it to the photographer undisturbed. Thranduil focused on picking out the sound of his footfalls from the multitude of noise around him, letting the steady pattern lull his mind into some modicum of static and maybe silence. The pressure was sure to mount soon enough, so he might as well enjoy what calm he could before it did.

* * *

 Behind the amber-brown of his sunglass lenses, Bard scanned the faces of the passersby, pupils narrowing and widening to adjust the aperture, to latch on to the vibrant colors of a scarf, the glee of a rosy-cheeked child, the goofy union jack print on the novelty sunglasses of some excited teenage girl. The long shadow of the towering pillar fell tilted across the cobblestones, flanked by the dimming sunlight to either side and indelible despite the bodies that traversed across it from all directions. The mental snapshots he loosely composed went as soon as they came, leaving his eyes to seek a new subject -- colors, lines, the tall, naked trees whose branches stretched out like broken fingers seeking to tickle the sky. The Mirkwood set paled in comparison to the exquisite, effortless spread of those branches shivering in the wind, but the trees paled in their stark beauty without the naked, blue-eyed king peeking out from behind their trunks.

"What are you looking at?"

The low, honeyed lilt so close to his ear violently startled Bard from his reverie, ripping a shudder straight down the middle of his back. The brunet had failed to notice that the couple that had been sitting next to him had gone and someone else had taken a seat beside him. That someone was a smug Thranduil, with his face half-hidden by the collar of his coat and his crystalline eyes glowing with mischief. Alarm gave way to a treacherous little thrill over Bard's ribcage that tickled down the sides of his body like rough wool on his skin. How long had Thranduil been sitting there, waiting for him to notice?

"Christ," Bard huffed and turned his body to face the blond's frame, "you gave me a helluva fright there. Are we playing spies now, or something?" The peek of cheekbone just over the top of the upturned lapel looked simply exquisite, as did the black cap on the model's head, bulging and slouching against the back of his neck with the weight of hair inside of it. How Thranduil made a trench coat and a beanie look they belonged together was beyond him, but he wasn't about to complain. "We could, if you would like." The blond's lips puckered slowly, then curled into a demure grin. "I could be the double-o-six to your seven, agent."

Bard tilted his head back and let out a shaky, guttural laugh, feeling the slow creep of a blush making its way up his neck. He did not need any more reasons to like _Goldeneye_ more than he already did. "You really sure you want to be a Sean Bean character? The restaurant has pretty great reviews, it'd be a pity if something happened to Alec on our way there." It was Thranduil's turn to laugh, rich and low, letting the sound hang between them to fill the scant space, intimate despite the noise pollution. The blond's long-fingered hand reached out to pluck Bard's sunglasses off with thumb and forefinger, then placed them on his own face, rounding out the mysterious hipster-spy look. Bard's eyes followed that hand, focusing briefly on the delicate, fuzzy gold of the hair on the model's knuckles and the back of his hand. The brunet wondered what that soft smattering of hair would look like under the summer sunlight.

"You look dashing," Bard breathed into the space between them, just low enough for Thranduil to hear. His eyes followed the tantalizing curve of the man's lips, lingering on the soft dimple just above the cupid's bow. If only he could just reach out and run a finger over the contours of Thranduil's mouth now, squeeze the plump flesh between his fingers and teeth...

"And you look starved." 

Like smoke from a blown candle, Thranduil uncurled and rose to his full height in one flowing motion, smoothing down the nonexistent wrinkles on his coat and black trousers with an elegance that was pretty much out of place with having been sitting on dirty stone steps on an old roundabout only seconds before. "Come on, lead the way to your prized find, then, Bowman." Bard took the outstretched hand the model offered and let his body move with the momentum of Thranduil's firm tug, coming to a stand in front of the statuesque blond with the breadth of their arms between them. Their joined hands lingered in their grip for a beat, then they slid away from the grasp, but not without Thranduil's nails trailing a fleeting promise over Bard's inner wrist and the palm of his hand. The photographer nipped at the inside of his cheek, suppressing the wish to take Thranduil's hand back and return the dubious favor with the edge of teeth and tongue.

Always finding ways to be bold under all that prim, that one.

"All right, then down on this way, down to Neal street, then back up Earlham to the theatre later." 

A stirring of satisfaction prickled between Bard's shoulder blades as he lead the way with long, purposeful strides, matched by the blond beside him keeping step. The photographer could feel the teasing scrutiny of Thranduil's gaze behind the tinted lenses, but deliberately avoided it, enjoying the sparks it ignited under his collar to feel the intangible weight of the other man's rapacious appetite held at bay for now.

* * *

Leave it to Bard to have picked a play with a photographer as one of the main protagonists. It had been a compelling work of seduction, dark comedy, and the unnerving, permeating sense of loneliness that haunted the characters throughout, leaving them no closer to comfort or satisfaction. Yet, he'd chosen to tease the brunet over the choice for a good five minutes before offering any insight on his thoughts about the work. Thranduil had, however, rewarded the photographer with a compliment on his choice of restaurant: the cauliflower and sweet potato curry had been pretty fantastic, as had been the apple and pear crumble he'd dared to indulge in, if only to press forkfuls of it to Bard's lips and watch him obediently take the offerings with relish.

"So, what would be my euphemism?" Thranduil asked around a mischievous grin as soon as they reached the outside, already lit by streetlamps and the bright displays of the shop windows that lined both sides of the road. It seemed fitting to ask, standing in the street, among the crowds that moved past them, just like Alice and Dan had in the play. Bard snickered and shook his head, the fingers of a hand rising to absently scratch at the dark bristles smattering his cheek. "Hm," Bard's wayward hand wandered lower to scratch at his chin, as if really pondering the question. Serious consideration was a good look on him. "Willful. What's mine? And don't say saintly."

 Well, damn, that was the best one, but too easy. "Dastardly, actually." The blond fixed the photographer with an empty glare, complete with raised eyebrow and narrowed eyes. Bard's mock sigh of suffering deteriorated into a snort, and his arms crossed over his chest, pulling the black material of his jacket tight over his biceps. "You're never going to let Wednesday go, are you?" Thranduil shook his head. The cap dipped further back from his hairline with the movement, however controlled it had been. The sliver of ashen gold shone almost white under the streetlamps.

"No way, _buster_." The rolling of Bard's eyes only fed the model's dirty amusement. He would make those eyes scrape the backs of their sockets one way or the other, _when_ he had his way.

"Where to now? Got any requests?" Bard's hands spread out in a sweeping gesture toward both sides of the street and beyond. The possibilities for further entertainment in central London were, for all intents and purposes, endless. Not the kind of endless that would satisfy the itch that had quickly returned to fester under the blond's skin.

"I want more Macallan." 

"Coupla places around here serve it, if you want to go," Bard offered, though he doubted Thranduil had a bar crawl in mind. Not with the way those eyes were darkening from azure to sapphire as they roamed his frame from head to foot. After having spent over two hours in the dark grazing the back of Thranduil's hand with his knuckles, teasing with loose tangles of caressing fingers, the photographer did not particularly care for going somewhere else either.

"Have you got some in your lair, agent?" Ah, cutting out the middleman this time, then. 

"Aye," Bard all but purred, brushing past the taller man as he began to head up the street, back toward the sundial. "It's two streets from here. C'mon." When Thranduil did not fall into step beside him as he'd done the rest of the evening, Bard turned around to look for him. The blond still stood in place, dark brows knitted into an expression of mild horror, mouth agape. "You live _here,_ in the bloody dials?! In this tumult? Could you be more cliché?" The blond's irreverence bordered on rude, but Bard found himself barking with laughter, unable to glare for long. Thranduil's inability to sometimes understand the pedestrian was pretty comical, though mildly worrisome.

"I could ask the same of you, you little _sloane_. Now, keep up!"

* * *

Between luxurious sips of the rich, lingering scotch, Thranduil studied the photographer's compendium of books and records on the bookcases lining the wall. Curious fingers slid over the book spines, over the worn dark wood of the shelves. Man Ray, Ansel Adams, Sontag, Galen Rowell, multiple photo compilations, Hammett, Atwood, Camus, Greene, Sun Fucking Tzu, Coehlo, Maugham, Garcia Marquez... Bard's tastes were all over the place, weren't they? Fairly well-rounded for a saint.

"...Thelonious Monk, Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, John Coltrane, Sinatra... What are you, 87? Got your cigar box next to your gramophone?" Thranduil was holding the brunet's precious vinyl copy of _A Love Supreme_  as he knocked back the rest of his Macallan, practically leering over the rim of the glass.Something in Bard's gut twitched strangely, in reaction to the juxtaposition of past and present in front of him. Truly irreverent, the little sod. He probably had no idea he was holding, literally, one of the greatest records of all time...

"Oi," Bard crossed the distance across the living room and gently pried the record from Thranduil's grasp, reverently cradling it in both hands, feigning offense that did not reach his eyes. "All these belonged to none other than Jack Girion, so you cool it, all right, Bossypants?" He placed the record back on the shelf, next to Miles Davis, where it had always gone -- even when it wasn't yet his. He was aware of Thranduil's closeness, of his eyes burning holes into his body once more. He smiled, his hand lingering on the worn edges of the cardboard sleeves with faraway fondness. "We'd listen to these for hours while he told me all sorts of stories."

Yes, Girion -- The Jack Girion, renowned war photographer and Bard's mentor. The brunet had grown up next door to the man, he'd told the blond in one of their text message exchanges. The nostalgia in Bard's soft utterance, his near-worshipful handling of the records... Thranduil's chest tightened with the unintended glance into Bard's private memories -- too personal, too soon. He himself had felt a similar twinge around his throat when he'd spoken of Legolas, of their playtime outside growing up, of being inseparable as children. Slowly, the model molded himself against Bard's back, his free hand rising to rest against the brunet's hip, barely grasping, simply touching. His nose nuzzled into the warm space behind Bard's ear, drawing a shudder from him. 

"You should tell me those stories some other time." There was barely sound in that breath, unneeded in the proximity. God, how was Bard so warm...

"What? Too boring to hear them now?" The amused rumble of Bard's chest warmed the embers inside his own. The brunet's unfinished glass came to rest on the edge of a shelf; the hand that held it joined Thranduil's at Bard's hip, covering it with just enough pressure to keep the blond's in place. Thranduil's eyes slid close, chasing the fragile thrill of teetering over the edge of a precipice. One singular movement could tip the scales into a pleasurable unknown.

"I'm more concerned with what's through that door, currently."

"That's my darkroom." Bard's head canted slowly to the side, offering more skin and pulse to Thranduil's lips as they dragged and pressed against the flesh. "I've never been in a darkroom before," the blonde commented lowly, drawing the brunet's earlobe between his lips. Bard's shudder had a shaky, hissed chuckle tied at its tail-end. Those worshipful, record-cradling hands reached back to squeeze at his hips and Thranduil made his delight known in a sultry, inarticulate murmur. He wanted those hands again, prying sighs from him and touching every inch inside and out.

"What, do you sleep with all your lights on?"

"Don't be cheeky," Thranduil pulled the grey cap off Bard's head and tossed it in the vague direction of the couch to his right, tugging at the dark tresses in playful retaliation as he did so. "Just show me."

* * *

 "So after exposing the paper on the enlarger, you bring it to these trays and you time each step," Bard explained from behind Thranduil who faced a long metal table with a sequence of empty trays. Under the deep red of the safelight, the room looked unreal, almost like a gritty noir comic. Thinking that Bard spent time here, methodically bringing images to life like some sort of alchemist, bathed in the bloody crimson light should not have made him hard, but there went his cock, twinging and straining against the inside of his trousers, against the table. Bard's arms to either side of him, caging him against the edge of the cold metal, only added more fire to his nerves. There was something the man said about a stop bath after the developer, but the delicious press of Bard's own arousal against the clothed cleft of his bottom distracted the model from a more active attempt at listening. Higher up on the wall, frameless prints hung from a clothesline. Some of them were of children, laughing with stained mouths and chubby fists closed around squashed berries; others were of arid canyons, of steep rocks reaching up toward cloudless skies; some looked suspiciously like the Moroccan medina. Part of him wanted to ask about the places the brunet had been, the things he'd seen, but the craving for that mouth tormenting the shell of his ear was stronger than his curiosity.

The cover of darkness made Bard bolder, it seemed.

"Enough learning for now, don't you think?" What Thranduil had intended as seductive came from him in a half-strangled pant, inhaled by the photographer's mouth pressed to his cheek, just inches away from Thranduil's lips. In the cradle of Bard's arms, the model wiggled and turned to face the smirking brunet, snatching the challenge from that mouth with a ruthless invasion of lips and tongue, sucking a sharp, rattling groan from the willing brunet. Bard's eagerness to meet and parry each lashing stroke of their tongues, to bruise the blond's mouth for its impertinence and need, earned him a reedy whimper from  Thranduil's lips. The model's hands tugging at Bard's fly and belt soon found their prize, heavy and hot underneath the damp fabric of the brunet's briefs. If only Bard would let go of his waist and let him sink to his knees...

" _Ohdamn_ ," Bard gasped dizzily, rolling his hips into the teasing, double-fisted grip that caressed him to root to tip, leeching heat with cool fingers, but leaving a trail of fire over the steadily leaking glans. "Thrand--" the model's name on his lips dissolved into a hiss when the blond shimmied out of Bard's white-knuckled grip and dropped to a crouch in front of him. In the dim lighting, Thranduil's eyes looked up at him ravenously, aggressively, almost. There was no denying Thranduil anything then, not even the most insignificant sound. The stroke of dry fingers on sensitive foreskin was downright cruel, but Bard inched into it all the same, torn between establishing control or relinquishing it. More and more, he was starting to believe both extremes amounted to same thing as far as the model was concerned. His favorite black cap wound up on the floor, yet again, and then his hands were blissfully overflowing with platinum silk. Bard tugged hard, tilting Thranduil's head forward, trapping those filthy lips against his aching length, much to their mutual pleasure.

"Honor your promise, Bard." The curl of that diabolical tongue, sucking hard and pressing into the ridges of the crown drew a convoluted string of panted yeses from the trembling photographer. The relentless suction threatened to batter down his shoddy resistance before he even had a chance to get a taste of the very feast devouring him.  "I swear...just, fuck... _bedroom_ , not here."

Thranduil's wicked laughter bled into a long, unfettered moan as it sank all the way down Bard's shaft.

* * *

He was almost naked as his back hit the mattress this time around, which was a vast improvement from three nights ago. Bard's fully nude form wasn't pressing above him yet, though; the brunet rooted around for lube in a drawer somewhere to his left, muttered about condoms somewhere in the bathroom cabinet. Thranduil pulled a handful of blue foil from a pocket of his trousers and tossed them on the sheets beside him before slipping the pants completely off his legs. 

"Come here," Thranduil demanded breathily, trailing a hand over his stomach and down past his hips to caress the inside of a thigh. His other hand chucked one of condoms at an approaching Bard. 

"You'll be sore if I wear all these, luv," the brunet chuckled against Thranduil's lips as he slid between long legs that welcomed his hips and secured them in a tight drape. Both men sighed into their messy, wet kiss as their arousals pressed together, sparking more heat in tightly wound places as they rocked against one another.

"Thranduil!"

Of all the reasons Bard had envisioned shouting the other man's name, being flipped onto his back hard enough to bounce his head off the mattress hadn't been one of them, but the masochist streak that ran deep in him thrummed with a new wave of arousal. Fuck, he was strong...

"You don't know if they're for you," the blond forced the words into Bard's mouth between pillaging kisses, bearing down on Bard's neglected cock with deliberate rolls of his hips. "Maybe one, maybe none. I could have gotten other ideas since last time." As if that kind of insinuation needed punctuating. The photographer's fingers tangled in the tickling rain of pale gold and tugged Thranduil's head back down for another kiss, his whole body arching and rising to meet Thranduil's sinful one. 

"Anythin' you want, Thranduil." It left the brunet's mouth as a threadbare whisper.

The nakedness of Bard's unfocused eyes liquefied the embers in his middle to magma, sinking into his bones and muscles, setting them unbearably ablaze. He had expected some resistance from the man beneath him, perhaps filthy declarations to overpower him, to make him scream -- perhaps even some witty quip -- but Thranduil hadn't expected Bard's utter willingness to please in any way he saw fit to ask from him. All too often he'd found himself at the hands of would-be conquerors or lackeys, either too forceful and boastful of their prowess, or too eager to be dragged through the mud; they all expected something, had their own agendas. Not Bard, not _his_ saint, with his easy touches and even easier laugh, with burning kisses and hands that fucking venerated all they touched. Thranduil ached at his core, full of emptiness again, throat tight with a need he wasn't certain he could articulate.

If this was what Bard had meant by taking him apart, he dared not think of what came next.

" _B_ _ard_ ," the model gasped hoarsely against Bard's cheek, gripped by that intoxicating mixture of frustration, fury, and longing from the last time clawing its way up his throat. Bard's hands dug and clawed at his dampening back, crushing him down until it hurt to be so close without being filled. Blindly, Thranduil felt around them for the bottle Bard dropped somewhere near them until his fingers closed around it. "You make me so hungry, _fuck_." Another curse died at the tip of Thranduil's lips, snuffed out by the photographer's mouth, gorging on the sounds he no longer cared to rein in. Bard was sitting up now, hands roaming over Thranduil's sides, catching blunt nails on peaked nipples, dipping thumbs into his navel and the dips of his hips. 

"You have to feed me."

The world lurched into motion too suddenly for Thranduil to do anything but cry out Bard's name, fisting a handful of damp curls as a tenuous handhold. He was on his back again and the bottle gone from his hand. Bard's reassuring weight no longer trapped him, but the sharp, pleasure-pain of the man's mouth sucking marks into the insides of his thighs as fingers spread him shamelessly open felt just as satisfying.

* * *

 In absence of a headboard, Thranduil clawed at the wall and pressed against it with his hand for leverage, back arching off the cold plaster, only to be driven back against it with each sharp thrust of Bard's hips. The long leg haphazardly draped over the photographer's shoulder was beginning to cramp from toes to calf, but Thranduil kept it hooked there, regardless; he was open so wide, so near rending each time Bard's cock forced his muscles to part for it, that he could not bring himself to contemplate the thought of moving, of losing the divine ache of friction on his prostate and deeper still, where no amount of fingers could satisfy. There was no longer room for his lungs to expand enough to cry out -- only aborted gasps and cracked mewls made it past his throat, floating out of his mouth each time it parted to draw breath and tried to moan. 

The hunger refused to fade, even now with his body pushed to the breaking point. It gnawed at his middle, still molten and painful, still propelling his hips to buck and bear the passionate assault, to beg without words.

He was so close again, and so was Bard, given the steady, broken growls the slick, burning man buried into the hollow of Thranduil's throat with each greedy clamp of his abused muscles around his cock. Shuddering and pushing past the burn in his muscles, the brunet relentlessly drove himself into their joint pleasure, relishing the deepening flush spreading from high on the blond's cheeks, down to his shoulders and all over his chest. He looked no less lovely now, with sweat-drenched hair and mouth twisted into a soundless scream, than he'd ever had in shoots and runways. Here in Bard's bed, Thranduil was his, exposed and vulnerable, brilliant and not an enigma. Thranduil was simply incredible in his struggle to draw him deeper, to call his name louder, after writhing in their vulgar nest of limbs for what felt like hours.

Bard's climax gutted him once more in a rush of spots darkening his vision, his body crumpling around Thranduil's twitching one as the blond milked his own cock for the last of his own bliss. The gasping sobs belonged to one of them, but it was nearly impossible to tell with their mouths stifling all sounds into urgent, artless kisses.

"I think I'm still hungry," the model whispered into Bard's ear, too sensitive still to attempt any sudden movements, but still restless with the urge to feel more of the dark-haired saint in his grasp and mouth.

"Are you taking the p-- baby, you can barely sit up right now," the other man chuckled tiredly and rearranged the strewn pillows into less of a mess, then gingerly laid Thranduil on his side before tying off the condom and stumbling out of bed to pick up and dispose of the rest. "Sleep a bit, yeah? I'll be right back with some water. Stay put." 

"I'm wearing the fourth one whenever I can move, so don't think your arse gets a hall pass."

Bard's laughter echoed in the bathroom over the sound of running water. The photographer came back with a damp towel, but Thranduil barely registered Bard wiping down his thighs and stomach, or the thick duvet the man covered him with before disappearing to the kitchen.

* * *

 A soft trail of butterfly kisses along the curve of his shoulder rose Thranduil from the dreamless doze he'd sunk into as soon as Bard had left him to clean up. "Sit up a bit, luv. Take these." The photographer held out two aspirin in one palm, and an uncapped bottle of water in his other hand. The pills looked to be uncoated, so the blond plucked them from Bard's hand and dropped them into his mouth, chasing the bitter medicine with the long, soothing gulps of cold water. He didn't have the heart to tell Bard he did not actually take pain killers, but the uncomfortable throb in his lower back would probably make him glad for the pills later on. Thranduil noticed the small bowl of tangerines next to Bard when he handed back the empty water bottle.

"Are you always such a considerate shag, or am I special?" It quickly became uncomfortable to put any pressure on his sore bottom, so the blond settled for leaning back on his elbows, tilting his head forward to receive the juicy wedges of fruit the brunet peeled and split for him. "How will you bugger me if you're all broken?" Thranduil's drowsy laugh gave way to a yawn.

"You're like Mother Theresa with a prick, I'm totally okay with this." Bard looked pretty cute when he was choking on a laugh. 

"Oh, my god," Bard groaned as he cleared his throat, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, still rumbling with mirth. "You're incredible. Shut up." The model obliged him by sucking Bard's juice-stained fingers into his mouth, lavishing kisses and languorous licks around the blunt pads. He could taste the mild brine of Bard's skin under the fragrant bittersweetness of peel and pith, altogether a taste he had yet to tire of. Fruit and bottle forgotten, Bard stretched out alongside the blond, pressing close as their lips found each other once more, tongues uncaring of the fingers still dipping into Thranduil's mouth and tugging at swollen petals of flesh.

**Author's Note:**

> 1.The play mentioned and referenced above is Patrick Marber's _Closer_ , of which there is a film adaption (with Clive Owen/Julia Roberts/Natalie Portman/Jude Law), in case you're interested -- and it's actually running at London's Donmar Warehouse, currently.  
> 2\. Additionally, Susan Sontag's _On Photography_ , in particular the 'In Plato's Cave' essay is pretty awesome, and freely available as pdf to read, should it interest you.  
> 3\. Yes, those are Bond and Sean Bean jokes in there because I'm trash like that.  
> 4\. From my understanding, a 'sloane' refers to a genteel rich kid from the Belgravia area, I think. Or in general, idk. London people, correct me if I'm wrong.  
> 5\. I am so, so, so sorry, Mother Theresa.  
> 6\. I wanted to take a little moment to thank all those lovely readers who have been following the progress of the series since its recent inception. You guys are fabulous and this is for you.  
> 7\. Feel free to yell at me for writing this; I've already yelled at myself for it. Comments and kudos are all very deeply appreciated; y'all are so lovely, I pet all your faces with tangerine fingers okay bye.


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